New Clothes
by IttyBittyTidbits
Summary: They fit badly at first.


**New Clothes**

At last. It was over. For once the guns were silent, and the smoke-filled air was beginning to clear. The House of Russia was calm.

Natalia found the door unlocked. She gave a little push. It swung inwards. At the hall, lit by a pair of sputtering lamps, was Ivan's pistol. Beside the table leaned his rapier.

A small smile graced her lips. Indeed, the bloodshed had come to an end. Ivan would not have to fight anymore. She pattered through the halls, his name a song upon her lips. She knew exactly where to find him. Ivan would be in his study, unwinding with a glass or two of vodka after a long day.

"Nii~saan!" She burst into the warmest room in the house, and her song died. Her face fell. "Russia-niisan?"

She tread carefully; quietly. Past the vase of wilted summer flowers, past the mud tracks on the carpet, past the upset bottle of vodka on the table and the shards of broken glass under it, past Ivan's worn glove, flung carelessly upon the floor...towards the great chair wherein sat a similarly great man.

Now she stood quietly by, one hand on the headrest by her brother's silvery blond hair. His face was tilted up, flushed a light red, powdered with fine snow. His eyes were closed. The half-open mouth was weary. His right glove slipped from the armrest and crumpled to the floor.

"Natalia." Ivan's childish voice was hoarse. He opened his eyes, unfocused gaze settling on her. He looked so tired and so sick and so positively reeked of alcohol.

She tried to smile. "It's over, Niisan." But her stomach roiled and she wanted to throw up. Something was wrong. 'The war's over."

He sighed, head lolling away from her. "They're dead. Every last one of them."

It was then that she noticed the unfamiliar set of clothes folded upon the opposite chair. Green jacket, green trousers, an armband, a brown cap, and a long brown coat. A pair of freshly polished boots waited nearby.

Her gaze whipped back to her brother. She fell at his feet, flung her arms around him. His hand came to rest on her head, stroking absently.

"The czar is dead."

The hint of a choked sob issued from the braided gold cords of Ivan's military uniform.

"...That's why there's going to be a lot more fighting." He paused, stared out the window at the softly falling snow, disentangled himself from her grasp and stalked over to the new clothes.

The dark blue jacket came off first, a button or two popping out as he ripped it off himself. Natalia could not tear her eyes away from the bruises blooming across his back. Ivan changed, unconcerned about being watched, increasing his sister's horror with every uncovered mark on that fair body.

The snow fell, the vodka dripped, seeped into the carpet. A chill wind blew in, carrying with it the echoing roar of angry masses and the gunshots from Ivan's new soldiers.

The blue and gold uniform was laid down. He swept on his coat. His favourite scarf was the last to come on. When he turned, his boots clicked smartly. His hair was a little tousled. He looked a bit drunk, and a lot unsteady, but he was smiling through the pain in those purple eyes and sounded cheery – or tried to – when he said,

"Things are going to be different from now on. That's what my new boss said."

And she knew he was lying to himself. She and her siblings had all been attached to the Imperial family, Ivan most especially. He would not be able to forget.

Tears prickled in her eyes. She swallowed; forced them back. If Ivan did not cry, neither would she. So she stood, dragging herself up, turning a deaf ear to the orgy of murder outside. She tried to smile like him; tried to sincerely feel the smile. It didn't make the pain of loss go away, but it made her feel braver. It made her feel as if she could take on the world if only to protect the one she loved the most.

"Niisan." Her next words were something she constantly said, though never did she truly mean them more than when she said it to her grieving brother then. "I'll never leave your side."

Ivan's smile did not waver, but a light of gratitude stretched it just a little bit further.

**~010101~**

**A/N: Set in July 1918, right after the Romanov massacre. I just had to get it off my chest. **


End file.
